20 JULY 1778
Dearest Elizabeth,
High summer for you and little Hugh in London. What memories that brings! Roses in full bloom, scarlet geraniums in their pots, wisteria blooming, primroses and wildflowers on the common. I hope that James and Nathaniel are writing to you regularly from Portsmouth, and possibly even obtaining leave and coming home. Upon my return I will have a great many mementoes for them. I’ve collected weapons from the Indians with whom we have had contact, which I’m sure they will find of interest.
We are now in the Bering Sea, following the coast of Alaska. It is a huge landmass, with snow-covered mountains which soar from the sea. Notwithstanding that the land is too cold and barren to be of economic use, I have claimed Alaska for England. This occurred two days ago, after we anchored off a cape at one end of a cove which I named Bristol Bay. The bay was sounded by our sailing masters and found to be so full of shoals that we could not safely anchor there. However, the cape afforded a sheltered anchorage, so Lieutenant Williamson led a party ashore, climbed a hill and claimed Alaska for King George. He also asked to name the cape Newenham after a friend of his. A solid English-sounding name, I thought, so why not? This had the effect of rendering Williamson more agreeable than he usually is.
We are now bound for the Bering Strait. The ships struggle with the conditions, as do the crews. The cold is constant, the sea ‘ jumbling’, to employ Clerke’s apt adjective. Worst of all is the blind fog that surrounds us most of the time. It brings cold and dampness to everything it touches, impedes our progress and brings despond to the company, clinging to the sails and rigging, and seeping below decks like a malign spirit. It is the fear of us all that the ships will become irretrievably separated. Both give off noise constantly with guns, drums, horns, rattles, bells and whistles. Amid the foggy gloom we sound like a raucous fairground, run by madmen. Fortunately Clerke is a far more able commander than Furneaux was back in ’73, so the ships remain in close company. Though he is still unwell, Clerke maintains a cheerful manner and navigates with admirable skill. I am fortunate to have him as my deputy.
I am still sleeping poorly. And when it does eventually come, my sleep is accompanied by fearful dreams. Some involve gigantic waves that come at the ship, with no possibility of escape. Another has me falling from the edge of an abyss, at the bottom of which is a cauldron of volcanic fire. Other nights I am being attacked by ferocious natives, and although I have my Brown Bess and aim it at them, it fails to fire.
After such dreams I wake exhausted. However, since there are few subjects more boring than other people’s dreams, I will not mention the subject to you again.
My gut is still not good. The pain is considerable. But as Mama used to say to me, in Great Ayton, ‘Mustna’ grumble, Jimmy, mustna’ grumble.’ And I never do, except to you in these writings.
Our food supplies are low, and we are fortunate that fish (halibut and cod) is sometimes available. Wood for the galley firebox is also running short, so we will soon need to obtain more.
It is my intention that by early August we will pass through the Bering Strait, which separates America from Siberia. This will afford us time to explore the Arctic Ocean and discover an eastward passage through to the Atlantic. The fact that that will bring me more quickly closer to you and our family gives added impetus to the voyage. I may even be back in England by Christmas!
Your loving husband,
James
‘Captain?’ The plump, usually cheerful face of surgeon’s mate Samwell was taut with concern.
James rose from his desk. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the surgeon, sir. He’s very poorly.’
James stood over Anderson’s berth, Samwell behind him. The surgeon’s face was ashen, his breathing just audible. His hands were clasped, claw-like, in front of him; sweat streamed from his brow into the hollows of his cheeks. Although his eyes were open, the whites had turned yellow. James placed a hand gently on his brow. The sweat was cold.
Anderson’s eyes turned and alighted on his commander. ‘Sir, sir …’
The statement remained unfinished. He convulsed twice, then from his mouth came a torrent of blood which poured down over the blanket covering him. He gave a terrible groan, then became still. His mouth stayed agape, his eyes open but sightless.
James drew back, but was unable to take his eyes from the stricken figure. From behind him came a sob. Turning, he saw that Samwell had his forearm over his face to block out the hideous sight. He put a hand on the young man’s arm. Samwell’s eyes were closed tightly but tears were leaking from under the lids.
‘He was a good man,’ James said, dully.
Samwell just nodded, his face a twisted knot of grief.
The burial service was held the next morning. Samwell and King held the body, wrapped in weighted sail-cloth, at the starboard gate. James stood behind them, commander’s prayer book in hand. Turned into the wind, Resolution was rolling heavily in the swells. The crew had gathered around the mid-deck in their fearnoughts, caps in hand, faces downcast. Anderson had been well liked.
James’s voice rose above the moaning of the wind. ‘Unto almighty God we commend the soul of our loved brother departed and commit his remains to the deep.’ As he intoned the words, he felt anger rather than grief. Why should a decent man like Anderson be taken so cruelly and prematurely? Almighty God, you have much to answer for.
King and Samwell raised the canvas package, then consigned it to the heaving sea. Around them the fog hovered, dense and icy, its dampness working its way into the marrow of their bones, compounding their sorrow.
The death of Anderson necessitated a change of order. Deciding that a more experienced surgeon was necessary on the flagship, James appointed John Law from Discovery as Anderson’s replacement. A rotund, owlish figure in his 30s, Law had studied medicine in Edinburgh. Samwell was sent across from Resolution to serve on the consort vessel.
A week later they approached the Bering Strait. As they did so, they sighted to starboard the western extremity of North America, a wide promontory backed by a mountain range. They anchored off the point but did not go ashore, and although conditions were hazy, James calculated the landform’s longitude as 191° 45' East and its latitude as 65° 46' North. He told his officers, ‘I am naming it Cape Prince of Wales, after the heir to England’s throne.’
The announcement was met with cries of acclamation from the others. They had again made their mark on this inhospitable coast.
Later that day, with his charts lying open on the table in the Great Cabin, James began a calculation. The longitude of the entrance to Hudson Bay, on the eastern coast of North America, was 80° West of Greenwich. Baffin Bay, to its north, was 79° West. He scribbled some figures with his quill. That meant they were now more than 1500 nautical miles west of any part of those two great bays.
He stared up at the hanging compass. If there was a North-east Passage, it must be a mighty long one. Finding it, then following it through, would be the sternest test of his seamanship. He set the quill down. But I will do it.
After they weighed and attempted to bear north, the sloops were struck by a gale from the east. Unable to make headway, they were taken west towards the opposite coast, the Siberian peninsula. Thus, in a single day, they had been driven from the continent of North America to the continent of Asia.
Spying an inlet on the Chukotsky Peninsula, James ordered the anchors dropped and two of the boats launched. Accompanied by Clerke, a marine contingent and his officers, he went ashore, telling the others, ‘We will only touch on this shore. We cannot afford to lose more than one day.’
There was a cluster of huts above the shore. As the launches were drawn up on the beach, a group of native men strode down to meet the newcomers. They were taller and stronger than the North Americans. Their faces were broad and clean-shaven, their eyes slanted. Asian people.
Encased in furs from head to foot and bearing spears, bows and arrows, they aimed the weapons at the visitors, but tentatively. Raising his hands in a open gesture of friendship, James walked directly up to them. ‘Good day,’ he declared. ‘Captain Cook, James Cook, of the navy of King George of England.’ He turned to Discovery’s commander. ‘And this is Charles Clerke, also a captain in King George’s navy.’
Comprehending little of this, the natives nevertheless lowered their weapons. James handed them beads, nails and wads of tobacco, and they grinned as they accepted the gifts. The party took particular note of the natives’ animal-skin quivers, which were beautifully embroidered. Delighted with the wads of tobacco, the natives sniffed them and sighed with delight. ‘Chukchi,’ they said, pointing at themselves. They lived by hunting foxes, they mimed, whose fur they sold to the ‘Ross-see-ya’, they said, pointing westward. ‘That must be where they get their tobacco,’ Clerke surmised. ‘From trading furs with the Russians.’
A big man wearing a wolf-skin cap handed James, then Clerke, a bundle of fox furs. As they accepted them, a native at the rear of the group began to beat on a skin drum. The others immediately put their weapons down and broke into a joyous dance, jigging, whooping and stomping on the sand. Unable to resist, the officers and marines joined in, laughing and shouting.
After allowing a few minutes of this happy fraternisation, James called to his men, ‘We’ll leave now. Return to the boats.’ Reluctantly they obeyed.
The fleeting but hospitable visit to the inlet James named St Lawrence Bay—after its equivalent feature on the eastern coast of America—had revived their spirits. Furthermore, the sky had now cleared to a hard, bright blue, the temperature was above freezing and the wind was from the south. The portents looked promising. Both ships weighed, then set sail on a north-easterly course.
Two days later, on 12 August, with the sky still clear, James and King made their usual midday astronomic observations. Lowering his sextant, James announced to the other officers, ‘Sixty-six degrees and thirty-three minutes North. Gentlemen, we are crossing the Arctic Circle.’
The others broke into applause. And James thought, I have ventured across both the Antarctic and the Arctic Circles in this ship: the only man in all history ever to have done so. How he would regale the Admiralty lords and his family with this achievement!
Their elation was short-lived. Next day the fogs returned, the temperature plummeted and the ships were again buffeted by unfavourable winds. If the Bering Sea had been merely surly, then the Arctic Ocean was openly hostile. The wind chopped the sea into hard, steep swells which pounded the ships. There were cross-currents and fierce tides which forced them to stand well off the northern coast of Alaska and hampered their progress northward. The temperature did not rise above freezing and the fogs were impenetrable. When they did lift they were replaced by driving sleet. The men stumbled about the decks and rigging like clumsy snowmen, their hands numb, their eyebrows iced over, their lips and noses stiff with the cold. Their snot froze in their nostrils, and working the sheets and sails was agonising, as their fingers became bruised and sometimes torn. Their coarse wool waistcoats and twill drawers were no barrier against the bitter winds, and they ceased to feel their feet.
Still the fogs persisted. The ships strove to stay together, Discovery following Resolution and its bobbing fog-buoy as a faithful hound follows its master. Beating drums and ringing bells to keep the ships in touch was one way for the crews to keep warm; blowing the horns was impossible, as the instruments had become clogged with ice.
In mid-August they saw their first ice mountains. Thereafter the sea was littered with them, jagged chunks of ice through which the ships sailed hesitantly, striving to keep their distance, since they were aware that the bulk of these icy islands lay below the level of the sea. As the two ships tacked amongst them, sailing masters Bligh and Edgar ran constantly from one side of their ship to the other, or dashed to the mast platforms, from where they shouted directions down to the helmsmen. Both sloops’ foresails, mainsails and spankers were kept close-reefed to reduce their speed and so minimise the chance of hitting one of the mountains.
The ice might have been menacing, but not everyone on Resolution resented its presence. As the ship moved hesitantly through the field, artist Webber made a perch for himself in the bow and sketched the mountains’ infinitely varied shapes. And once, when a boat was launched in order to collect some ice chunks for fresh water, Webber went along and drew the two vessels as they were hove to and surrounded by the craggy white bergs. Proudly showing James a drawing he had made, Webber said, ‘There is a beauty in this ocean, Captain. A terrible beauty, and one largely without colour, but beauty nonetheless.’ His face was blue and pinched by the cold but his eyes shone.
The statement irritated James. Disregarding the drawing, he said, ‘I don’t share your enthusiasm, Webber. When I look at the ice, all I see is an impediment to the North-east Passage. And a damnably cold one at that.’
‘But I am seeing the ice mountains through an artist’s eyes, Captain.’ There was disappointment rather than reproach in his tone.
‘And I am seeing them through a navigator’s. Draw the ice mountains by all means, but don’t expect me to find them beautiful.’ He was growing heartedly sick of the ice.
There was another noise that gave notice of the ice’s proximity: the bellowing of the sea elephants that made it their home. Through the fog, the huge creatures’ trumpeting at their rivals carried to the sloops, a noise as repulsive as the creatures themselves. But the roaring was also a useful signal, cautioning the helmsmen that the ice was close. Whenever they heard the roaring of the sea elephants, Bligh and Edgar ordered the ships to bear away.
Towards the end of August the clerk reported to James that the supplies of salt beef and pork were running low. For once James was not overly concerned at this news. He gave an order for the remaining salt meat supplies to be rationed, since he knew that there was now an alternative source of meat. Surgeon Law had reported that some of the men were showing symptoms of scurvy, bleeding gums in particular. Fresh meat, with its anti-scorbutic properties, would help ward off the scourge, as James had proved on his second voyage.
He ordered the sloops hove to and issued instructions to a party led by Ewin. The boats were launched and rowed across to an ice shelf where a dozen huge sea elephants lay slumped and grunting. From a short distance away the men shot nine of the creatures with their muskets. After the rest had dragged themselves away, bellowing with fury, Ewin and the others decapitated and eviscerated the dead ones with axes and hooks. The carcasses were ferried back to the ships and hauled aboard. Some were more than nine feet long and over half a ton in weight. They were butchered on deck and the chunks of blubber sent below to the galley. Cook Morris was instructed to boil, then slice and fry the meat for serving to the crew the next day.
At midday James’s servant brought him a portion of the fried sea elephant. Swimming in fat, it covered most of the large plate. Dining alone, he placed a napkin around his neck then began to cut the meat with his knife. It made no impact. He tried again, but the knife still would not penetrate. He fetched his sharpest dagger from his cabin, and after several attempts managed to hack off some chunks of meat. He placed one in his mouth and began to chew. It had a distinctive taste. Very oily, and not the tenderest meat he’d ever eaten, but palatable nonetheless. He kept chewing, swallowed, then hacked off another chunk and put it in his mouth. ‘Marine beef’ was a name this fare could be given, he decided. And there was sufficient quantity of it aboard to last them through to the North-east Passage and out the other end.
‘Sir?’ It was Ewin, who had been shown to the mess door by the sentry.
James looked up from his meal. ‘What is it?’
The bosun shuffled nervously. ‘It’s the able seamen, sir.’
‘What about them?’
‘They refuse to eat the sea elephant, sir.’
‘What?’
‘They won’t eat it, Captain. The cook told me they cursed him after he served it up. Their descriptions of the meat were colourful, sir, Morris reported.’ Ewin tried not to smile. ‘A Clydesdale’s baked arse would be tenderer, one said. A badger boiled in castor oil would taste better, was another opinion. So they took the meat up and chucked it overboard.’
James leapt to his feet. ‘Good God, what a waste!’
Ewin shrugged. ‘Mebbe, sir, but they were stubborn. They won’t have a bar of the sea elephant.’
‘What are they eating instead?’
‘Since you’ve rationed the salt beef and pork, sir, they’re just having the ship’s biscuit. And nothin’ else.’
James went immediately to the crewmen’s mess. Even before he got there he smelled a stench. Not just the lower deck’s usual sweat-farts-onions-sauerkraut-and-pipe-smoke smell, but something additional and different, a pong that permeated the mess like the stink from a Stepney sewer.
A dozen crewmen sat at the tables, nibbling their biscuits. James stood in the door of the mess, glaring at them. When they saw who it was they stared down at their square wooden plates, avoiding his eyes. The commander rarely visited this part of the ship.
James stepped forward. ‘Is it true,’ he demanded, ‘that you have rejected the sea-elephant meat?’
Still looking down, they muttered, ‘Aye, Captain.’
‘And is it also true that you threw good meat overboard?’
There was a long, sullen silence, broken eventually by a voice from the end of one of the mess tables. ‘It were not good meat, sir.’ The rejoinder came from able seaman Mathew Dailey, who had a nose like a spigot.
James scowled. ‘Not good meat, Dailey? Not good meat? It is fresh and healthful. I ate it, and you will eat it!’
Irishman James Dermot raised his hand. His face was dimpled with smallpox scars. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but some of us don’t have the teeth for it.’ He bared his toothless gums. ‘We canna chew the stuff, sir.’
‘And the stink, Captain.’ This judgment came from Jan de Beecker, who hailed from Bremen. ‘The elephant meat is stinking, sir, like a rotten hedgepig.’ There were mutterings of agreement around the tables.
James’s gaze swept the cabin. He was tempted to order the lot of them lashed, ungrateful swine that they were. Wasting food was a flogging offence, the more so since their supplies were low.
Hands behind his back, shaking with rage, he announced through gritted teeth: ‘Since you refuse to eat perfectly good fresh meat, you will continue to make do with ship’s biscuit, along with the sauerkraut and malt to keep the scurvy at bay.’ His glare intensified. ‘And any man who does not follow these orders will be given three dozen lashes.’
He turned and left the mess, as angry as he had ever been on any voyage. Let them eat biscuits. Weevils and all.